The Blackout
by Tokyo Sunset
Summary: The RED Scout questions his sanity as the power goes out one stormy night. Rated T because of Scout. WARNING! Can contain terrible puns. Also, do not expect speedy updates.
1. Boredom

Scout was bored.

Correction, saying that he was bored would be a massive understatement. Boredom is an emotional state experienced when an individual is left without anything in particular to do, and not interested in his surroundings. What Scout was experiencing was a strong pain, ripping through his skull as he laid on his bed, too glum to continue laying on it a minute longer, yet too mentally exhausted to look for something else to do. He puffed as he tossed his white leather baseball against the wall, which made an unsatisfying _thump _before it returned into the palm of his hand. He would repeat the seemingly endless process over and over again.

_Thump... thump… thump…_

"Man, dis shit sucks bawls."

After a tiring day of fighting at Nightfall, our beloved mercenaries have found themselves in a rather comatose state when the clock struck midnight. Our Scout, however, was not lucky enough to be shrouded in a calming, blissful state of slumber. It was quite a shame that the Scout wasn't able to do as his colleagues did, simply because he had 2000 milligrams of caffeine rushing through his bloodstream. Deep inside, he knew that it was a mistake to drink seven cans of BONK! during the mission, but he ignored his subconscious, much like he ignored Spy when he ordered him to stop eating his breakfast cereal with a ladle.

And now, though the caffeine rush had stopped, the insomnia stayed, and boredom soon joined it. This boredom was biting through his sanity like a rodent, and he desperately tried to make it go away by throwing a small leather baseball against the cracking red wall repeatedly.

_Thump... thump… thump…_

Cursing once more, he tossed the leather ball in a corner, anticipating its impact as it returned to him. But the ball refused to return, almost as if it was bored of this repetitive game itself. The Scout hopelessly looked at the big white clock on the wall of his room. It showed that it was exactly 1: 17 a.m. This irritated the young Bostonian, and he began flipping on his squeaky bed like a seal, hoping that, by the time he makes a complete flip, the sun will rise, and he will be able to run around the base freely, without having to quiet down for the sake of his comatose teammates.

Much to his despair, after he made the flip and continued to lie on his bed, his shoulders and knees on his mattress and leaving his hips to stick up in the air awkwardly, the damned clock still showed the same time.

"Fuck dis shit, I'm bored!"

With that thought, he sat up on his bed and hopelessly rubbed his face. He squinted as he looked around his dark room, only making out basic shapes and silhouettes of his furniture. He never really liked the dark too much. As a Scout, his job was to search the area, see everything before anyone else. The darkness seemed to conceal those important things he had to look out for. For that exact reason, he always hated the darkness.

And there was this one other time concerning the boogeyman when he was four, but that is a whole other story.

The young Bostonian tapped his foot against the floor. It made a strange squeaky sound as the rubber of his sneakers made contact with the cold concrete floor, but he didn't seem to mind it. Instead he wondered; what could he do to entertain himself at one o'clock in the morning?

A few ideas popped into mind, but he felt like doing none of them.

Suddenly, his face lit up, as if an imaginary light bulb popped up over his head. He snapped his fingers for good measure, and a small smile crept over his face, as our Scout was facing yet another Eureka moment.

If all else failed, he could always pester the friendly neighborhood Nazi.

* * *

The Medic's office was a smaller one. It consisted of a number of bookshelves, filled with many old, dusty medical books that he most likely never even opened. A large oak desk was in the centre of the room, along with a plain black leather office chair. This extremely simple office was decorated with a tall pearly white skeleton in the corner, and a simple red Persian rug, which made the office look sort of pleasant. The Medic was crawling on this thick comfortable carpet; squinting and he looked for something under his desk. He moved around his office on all fours, sometimes reaching out his right arm and touching the smooth surface of the floor. He muttered something under his breath. He suddenly heard footsteps echoing in the hall. The insomniac doctor shut his eyes tightly. He recognized the swift, impatient footsteps of a certain obnoxious Bostonian.

Not today. Please, not today of all days…

The metal mechanical door opened sideways with a loud swish as the motion detector sensed the Bostonian's presence. The young man walked into the room, with a big stupid smile on his face.

"Hey, doc, how's it goin'?"

"Halt!" the doctor commanded, making the confused Bostonian freeze almost instantly, his foot lingering in the air as he was about to step forward.

"Be careful, _bitte._ I'm looking for somezing."

"Sorry, doc," apologized the Scout as he began walking across the carpet slowly. He walked slowly, but not necessarily carefully. He sat on a short brown stool, reserved for the German doctor's patients. He spread his legs and placed his hands on his knees.

"Whatcha lookin' for, anyways?"

"Iff you must know, _Dummkopf, _I am looking for my glasses," the doctor squinted at the boy.

"_Und, was in Himmel, _iff I may ask, are you doing here?"

"I was bored," the Bostonian shrugged; "So I came around. I knew that you wasn't sleepin' or nuttin'. You mind if I hang ahound hiyeh?"

The Medic looked at the man with disgust, never caring much about his irritating Boston accent.

"_Na gut, _but be quiet."

It took Scout barely twenty seconds to start tapping his feet against the floor nervously. The tapping soon turned into beat, and he was soon flapping his palms against his knees, incorporating an occasional whistle. The rhythm became faster and louder, much to Medic's despair. He hopelessly stood up straight and frowned at the annoying young man.

"Do you mind?" Medic asked, his arms crossed on his chest. The Scout became quiet. His attention was captured by something on Medic's table. It was an ordinary framed picture. The Bostonian found it intriguing, and he soon found himself examining the picture. Little things like this often grabbed his attention, as he had the attention span of a retarded goldfish with ADHD. Well, if only…

"Yo, doc, who's dis cow?" the young man gestured to the woman in the picture, a slightly overweight girl with big sparkling eyes. The Medic's frown turned into a bright, slightly nostalgic smile.

"Zat, Scout, ist Natasha. Izn't she ze most fascinating woman you haff ever seen?" he ticked his head to the side, clasping his palms together.

"Yuck!" exclaimed Scout; "You sure know how to pick 'em, doc." The Bostonian left the picture back on the great oak desk.

"Oh, don't be so crude. Look at her! Aren't her eyes just… vanderfull?"

The Scout looked into the slightly blurry picture. Though it was black and white, the woman's eyes shined brightly through it, like two flaming suns. It was almost as if she were looking straight into the Bostonian's soul. He gulped and dropped the picture down to the surface of the desk, never wanting to see that creepy look from her again. Suddenly, he saw something absolutely amazing, standing in the corner. Scout's eyes widened with glee.

"Holy shit bawls! A freakin' skeleton!"

The Scout ran up to the skeleton, looking at it in admiration.

"_Ja, ja, _Scout. It is very impressive. _Und _now, if you could kindly leave…"

The Scout ignored the irritated doctor and continued to ogle the ivory bones.

"'Ey, doc, your friend hiyeh ain't lookin' so lively. Heh. Get it? _Lively?" _

The doctor rolled his eyes, not being able to believe Scout's inability to produce a good joke.

"It's funny, 'cuz he ain't alive no more, right?" was Scout's response to the uncomfortable silence. Some crickets chirped in the distance loudly while the Medic looked around the room for his glasses, not being able to see anything in greater detail.

"OOH! I gawt anutha' one!" Scout exclaimed enthusiastically. He coughed loudly in a preparing manner, standing a bit straighter than before.

"Okay, umm…" the Bostonian started; "Now," he turned to the skeleton; "You know who you remind me of? Pelvis Presley."

He subtly looked up to the uninterested doctor, who was too busy searching around his desk. He shook his head disapprovingly. The Scout considered this an invitation to try out some new material. He picked up the skull in his right hand while the Medic wasn't looking, and started to do some strange prop comedy.

"Okay, um, uh…" he cleared his throat and looked dramatically at the skull;

"To be… or not to be… that is da… question and shit. And, umm…" he tried to recall his old English classes at high school, but all he could remember was how Stella Donaldson was sitting next to him in that class, and man was she hot! Still, he made up for his lack of knowledge when it came to Shakespearean dialogue with an excess of dramatic expressions.

"'Tis nobler and shit, to suffer and sling, and…a-and… Aw, screw it. Spoilah alert, they all die in da end, and dat Ophelia bitch drowns herself. Dumb slut."

The Medic looked back at the Scout, who was currently throwing the skull like a baseball in the palm of his hand. He gasped.

"_Nein!_" he snatched it from the Scout quickly; "You do not throw it like zhat!" he carefully placed it on its stand, after failing to do so the first couple of times, due to his poor depth perception. The Scout grinned at the skeletal figure.

"Yo, doc, how come you's gawt a skeleton hiyah? Whose skelly is it? Who was the guy? If it was a guy…"

The last comment gave Scout an idea, and he leaned over to the white bony structure, flexing his biceps.

"Ey gurl," he said to it; "You look fine today. You lost some weight? You're all like bare bones and shit," he put his hand around the skeleton, making the Medic slap his own forehead in disbelief.

"You know, you would look so hawt if you got yaself some titties. You'd give me a…_boner_." Scout began making some spastic movements, trying not to burst out laughing. The Medic crossed his arms and looked at the Bostonian judgmentally.

"Scout, stop that. Your pathetic jokes are neither clever nor…" the doctor forced away a grin; "nor humerus," he ended with a smirk. Sadly, the Scout failed to understand this joke.

"Aw, come on, doc. Don't be such a pain in da ass. Toss me a bone once in a while. Heh-heh. See what I did there?"

The Medic groaned and plummeted into his black leather chair, clutching his head. Suddenly, he got a brilliant idea. It involved two of his favorite things; death, and the possibility of getting a young irritating Bostonian as far away from him as possible. As he looked up at the blurry Scout, he smiled cunningly.

"Do you vant to know who zhose bones are from?" he grinned. He didn't need perfect 20/20 eyesight to see that the young man's face light up as he sat on the stool hastily and looked at him, eagerly awaiting the explanation.

"Yes," was his simple answer. The Medic looked at the boy leaning over to the doctor in a manner of a small child. The doctor sighed as he looked upwards to the gray ceiling. He turned on a small lamp on his desk, and it illuminated the room with a soft, golden glow.

"Very vell. I shall now tell a story about…"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" the Scout protested; "Don't go callin' it a story! Stories are for kids! I ain't a kid! I'm a grown ass man!"

"Vell, vhat do you vant me to call it, zhen?" the Medic asked, leaning on his desk with his left elbow and propping his head against it.

"Umm… call it a…call it a…" the Scout suddenly raised his hand and made a half circle across the air, mesmerized by the movement.

"Something."

The doctor sighed as he looked at this worthless human being. Still, he promised the boy a story…ahem, a something, and he was a man of his word.

"Alright. I shall tell you a… a narrative concerning zhat skeleton."

"Narrative. Kick ass."

Scout propped his head on his palms, in a childish fashion. The Medic snickered as he clapped twice; making the chandelier illuminating the room turn itself off. The table lamp let out a glow on the older doctor's face, and in this light, it seemed more grim than before. His pupils widened, and he smiled fiendishly as he clasped his hands together, trying to find the right words to start the story with.

"Now, young Scout," he chirped; "Zhis narrative is a ghastly story of death, vengeance, lunacy _und…_ghosts."

The Scout squealed with delight.

* * *

_"It was a dark, horrendous night when the Builders League United mercenaries stepped forth into battle. It rained all day, and thunder struck in the night, but the mercenaries had a job to do. They all grabbed their weapons, determined to make that day their victims' last. One man was more determined than the rest of his crew. It was the brilliant Doctor Dement of Berlin, the most infamous doctor of their time._

_The healing rays we use today didn't exist in the year 1918, so the Berliner used his special form of treatment. He used two large electricity conductors, made from aluminum. They looked like larger drum sticks, attached to his bulky knapsack, containing the electricity generator. With electric shocks, he healed his allies, giving them a jumpstart when their hearts stopped beating in the heat of battle, and destroyed his enemies. Doctor Dement was perhaps the most notorious Medic in the history of BLU. Everybody was frightened of him. No Spy or Pyro could reach that level of inhumane evil and utter madness. Where this man set foot, chaos and mayhem reigned. That is, until that dreadful day…_

_It was difficult, fighting at that time. Once you were dead, you wouldn't be coming back. A man couldn't rely on his weapons more than he could rely on his skill and slyness. There was no God to protect you, only Doctor Dement and his faithful shockwaves to bring you out of Death's reach, just barely. And, getting piss in your face was a thing to look forward to. And at that time, and in those harsh conditions, only one man could compete with Doctor Dement._

_His nave was Harvey. He was the RED Scout. Cocky little prick. Much like you. He ran through the battlefield, a metal crowbar in his hands. Mud stained his shoes, and his face was soaked with the blood of his enemies, and the rain, slowly washing it off. He could smell the coppery scent of death in the air. To him, this was a game. The war between two greedy brothers was like a simple game of chess to him. He didn't care for his life, he only cared for victory. And he only cared for murder. And he was running through the field, thunder striking in the distance. He wanted to murder Doctor Dement._

_Harvey and the Medic stood opposing each other, hot, white fury surging through their nerves. They both smiled, the child and the sadistic maniac. The Medic clicked his two lightning sticks together, and they were charged; blue electricity zapped around them, buzzing. The child slammed the crowbar against the palm of his hand. Without thinking, they rushed towards each other. _

_You know Scout, being electrocuted is a terrible thing, indeed. Voltage levels of 500 can cause severe burns. The person begins to twitch as he loses control over his body. A red lightning shaped line forms on the place of impact, marking him forever. It's a relatively quick, painful death. The higher the voltage is, the faster the death comes. Dement knew this, so he raised the voltage to maximum level. Sadly, he couldn't calculate the boy's speed and determination, nor his force of impact._

_With one swing, the boy sent the doctor flying through the air. A thin trail of blood rushed from his skull and fell onto the ground, splattering in unevenly. Just then, lightning struck once more. A beautiful white pillar of destruction captured the doctor in mid-air. He let out a primal shriek, and the blue electricity surged through his body. He was one with the power. For a brief second, he was the Übermensch. All mercenaries, both RED and BLU, stared in awe. And, just then, the doctor vanished. The electricity went into the power transmission lines, stretching high up in the sky. The doctor was nowhere to be found. A brilliant mind, gone in one of nature's greatest creations, and it was all Harvey's fault."_

* * *

The Scout was clutching his knees, listening to the story carefully. The doctor's wrinkled face gave out no emotion as he told the tale.

"Some say zhat zhe spirit of Doctor Dement still roams zhe earth. Some say zhat it seeks revenge on the Scout who killed him. But one thing is for sure," he turned on the main light with a clap, making Scout close his eyes, irritated by the brightness;

"Doctor Dement is among us in some form. And he will come to seek his vengeance," he concluded with a grotesque grin. Scout waited for barely a second before commenting on what he had just heard.

"Dat… is da stoopidest thing I have evah heard!" he got up from his seat, ready to leave.

"I mean, if da guy disappeared, who's the skeleton from?"

"Zhat thing?" asked the Medic, casually looking over to it; "Oh, I don't know. Some guy."

"Yo, man, you can't tell a good narrative for shit!" The Scout marched out of the door, murmuring something about going to sleep. Still, the tale made him slightly uneasy, and he flinched as the mechanical door closed behind him with a loud whoosh.

* * *

It was around three a.m. when Scout managed to crawl into bed, cursing the Medic under his breath the entire time. The story was so incredibly stupid, and yet Scout couldn't bring himself to blink after hearing it. Trying to think about something else, he started to toss around in his bed. Thunder cracked outside the base, and it made him squirm. The mental image of a man getting engulfed into a surge of electricity haunted him. It was raining outside, and Scout found himself pondering the possibilities of hitting a man into a lightning bolt and killing him that way. That would be cool.

Suddenly, as yet another lightning struck, all the lights in the base turned themselves on. Shocked by this, the Scout covered his head with his thick red blanket. He reached his hand and began feeling around the base of his bed, looking for his baseball bat. The lights flickered and shut off once more. Scout could hear muffled cries and howls of protest. Not trying to think about this, he grasped his bat from under the bed, and clenched it firmly. He found himself alone in the dark again. After almost a minute, he heard footsteps approaching his room. He frowned as he saw a figure opening the door of his bedroom, holding a flashlight. It shined right into Scout's face, and he considered this an appropriate time to attack. He flew onto his target, bashing him once in the head. Just as he lifted the bat to strike him once more, he heard a familiar accent.

"Whoa, boy, ya can't just go bashin' people like that! It ain't right."

Scout got up from his Texan colleague, feeling more than slightly embarrassed about his outburst. He flicked the light switch on, and saw the Texan standing in front of him, barefoot, wearing his pajamas and, oddly, his hardhat.

"I gotta 'member to keep this thing on more often," he said, knocking against it. The boy backed away from him, still holding the baseball bat.

"Whatcha doin' here, hardhat?"

The Texan shook his head at the boy's accent, but still managed to answer the question.

"The storm's messing with the power. Just wanted to warn ya that you should expect some stuff to go on an' off occasionally. But, uh…" he scratched the back of his neck; "It also messed up some circuits. Includin' the ones sealing out entrance. Scout, we… we're locked in until further notice."

Scout jumped on his squeaky bed, protesting loudly.

"What? Locked in?! I can't be locked in! Locking me in is like a crime against nature!"

"I know it's too much fer ya to swallow right now…" the Texan tries to console the Bostonian.

"That's what he said," Scout muttered to himself quietly.

"…but I reckon I'll have this fixed in a jiffy. Just givin' you a heads up."

"Thanks," muttered Scout to the Texan leaving the room. As the door shut, the Scout clutched his head in agony. Locked until further notice. It had a certain horrid ring to it.

"Dis can't get any worse," Scout said to himself.

But, as yet another lightning bolt struck outside, and as the power shut down completely, Scout realized that it can and will only get worse from here on in.

"Freakin' fantastic," he muttered, grabbing his baseball bat and getting out in the hall.


	2. Do You Believe In Dark Magic?

**Author's Note:** Well, apparently there is another fic called "Blackout" on this site, submitted today. Not sure how I feel about that. But hey, I don't own the word "blackout". Come to think of it, I don't own Team Fortress, either. I do own all of my unecessarry OCs I ever wrote (except for Pepper, I hate her).  
Well, I'm not seeing the suspense part in this chapter, and the humor part is vaguely showing. But uhh... hey, look over there! *jumps out the window*

* * *

As the Scout walked out and into the echoing hallway, he saw an unusual sight. Four of his teammates were arguing, in complete darkness. The Engineer was trying to console the other three men, yelling at him, not being able to comprehend what had just happened. The Soldier, the Demoman and the Sniper were looking irritated, unwell, and sort of ridiculous.

The Scout had never seen his teammates out of their work clothes, so it was quite a shock when he saw them in their droopy, unkempt, I-don't-give-a-crap-because-it's-three-a.m. state. The Soldier was wearing only a pair of grey pajama bottoms, his tattered grey slippers and a helmet. He hauled a shovel over his shoulder while he was bringing himself in the defenseless Texan's face, his neck becoming more and more vascular as he explained the difficulties of leaving the base when it's locked shut. His big toe was peaking out of his right slipper, and it made Scout wonder if the Soldier was getting paid for doing this job as much as the other mercenaries. The Demoman looked as he normally did. He had the habit of getting piss drunk before passing out on whatever flat surface he found after battle. According to everyone, the Scot didn't sleep; he just took breaks between drinking. Even now, after every badly slurred argument he could think of, he took a swig from his bottle of Scrumpy. The Sniper was the only one who brought an actual weapon with him, his trusty Bushwacka, which he grasped tightly in his palm, sometimes shaking it towards the Engineer in anger. This made the Texan speak hastily, desperately trying to calm everybody down. Though the Sniper was the only one carrying around a lethal tool, he looked as if he had just been pushed out of bed. He wore his wife beater and red boxers with tiny boxing kangaroos. Of course, nobody else could see those details in the dark, but they were there, and Scout pretended not to notice them. At this point Scout regretted his choice of night clothes, consisting of a plain RED T-shirt and briefs. Briefs. The Scout bobbed his head down approaching his raging teammates, hoping that nobody will mind his ill position.

"Wot do ya mean, we're locked in, ya bleedin' redneck?" the Sniper's blade came dangerously close to the Texan's neck.

"I'm tellin' ya fellas," he gulped; "I'm on my way to fix it, but it might take a while."

"Take ah bloody while?" murmured the Scot after gulping down half the Scrumpy; "How long da ya suppose a bloody while'll be?"

"This is an outrage, greasemonkey! I demand to be set out of this base and out on that field NOW!" shouted Mr. Jane Doe.

"Look, I know that yer all very angry, but yellin' ain't gonna do us no good. And, if you just let me do my job, I might get this fixed in a matter of hours."

"You better, maggot. Or so help me God, I am going to fit my foot right in your big, fat, Texan…"

"And 'ow long do ya suppose we're guonna be stuck here if ye don't fix it in a matta' of 'ours?" the Scot sneered.

"Not long," Engineer shrugged; "I can activate the emergency power supply, but the mechanism will still need some fine tunin', but that'll take some time, a few days, max."

This set of another roar of protest. The Scout was growing sick of listening to them.

"Hey guys…" he started, hoping to get their attention.

"Now, if ya'll just let me…"

"Let you do wot? If you were a good Engineer, we wouldn't be in this blimey mess!"

"I have never had this sort of disrespect in all of my life! When I was in Poland, I was treated with respect I damn well deserved! I earned every single one of these medals I made! I am a war hero, and I will be treated as such!"

"Guys…" the Bostonian started again. For once, he wasn't the loudest person in the room. Something was wrong in the universe today, and it made him feel awkward. He scratched under his chin as he listened to the bickering go on and on. He was unsure of what to do.

"Now, fellas…"

"Shut up you bloody wankah!"

"If I'm not out on tha field by tomorrow mornin', I'll blow you up tae bits!"

"Maggot! Useless maggot!"

"HEY!" the Scout screamed, suddenly making everyone turn their heads to him. He coughed once, nonchalantly putting the heavy baseball bat behind his back. The awkward silence lasted for about three seconds. The Engineer was the first one to speak.

"If ya'll don't mind, go tell the rest that we're locked in. I recon' everyone's up right now. I'll go check the lock mechanism." After saying that, he began walking down the hall, only briefly turning to the Soldier.

"You mean to intimidate me, son? I got mah hand cut clean off and replaced it with a mechanical masterpiece," he snickered, showing his pearly whites to the stoic Yankee.

"There won't be no man nor machine to scare me that easily…'cept mah wife," he muttered to himself as he walked towards the mainframe room. His footsteps echoed around the wide, metal hallway. The mercenaries were unsure of what to do at that point. They all stared at their feet, processing Engineer's words about informing the other mercenaries. Thunder struck outside, and the hallway shook. The mercenaries didn't let this scare them. During their time spent working for the RED, they came to realize that storm was the only thing they shouldn't worry about. Still, nobody felt at ease.

The Scout casually looked at the small wooden door in the hallway. The soft light coming from the Texan's flashlight grew dimmer as he walked down the hall.

"Any of you gonna tell Heavy 'bout dis, or do I hafta do all da work?"

The three mercenaries looked at each other, without saying a word.

"Don't tell me I hafta do it myself?!" Scout protested, reaching out his arm to them. After failing to get a response from them, he carefully walked up to the unlocked door. He turned the round doorknob, and the door opened with a squeal. The Scout began talking before he even set foot in the room that belonged to their Russian comrade.

"Yo, 'Eavy, da powah is out, so we just wanted ta…"

"Do not disturb Sasha, leetle baby man!"

The Scout was looking at the man sitting on his bed, his face lit up by a large candle on his nightstand. The obese Russian was cradling the minigun on his lap, wrapping it with a thick red blanket. His bald head shined from the illuminating flame as he looked at the Scout with piercing anger. He suddenly turned his gaze towards his beloved gun, leaving Scout to wonder at how such a small bed can support such a large man without breaking in half.

"Ees alright, Sasha," Heavy cooed in a softer, quieter tone, swaddling his minigun; "Leetle Scout not danger. He is just stooped. And in wrong place. Sasha can go sleep now."

He wrapped his arms around the gun, quietly humming what was supposed to be some sort of lullaby.

_Sleep my leetle Sasha,  
You are coward crusha',  
From Badlands to Russia,  
But now rest you must…_

He looked at the Scout once more. If looks could kill…

"Leave, leetle man! Sasha must sleep!"

After saying those words, the Heavy turned to Sasha, and continued to sing to his minigun in his deep, off-key voice. Scout couldn't hear the lyrics of the song properly, because he was too busy slowly stepping out of the door, his eyes wide open and fixed up on the overweight singing Russian. It took him exactly five steps to walk out backwards out of the room, and then close the door with a slow, loud squeak. When the Scout was satisfied with the short, loud click the door emitted upon closing, he turned to his teammates. He was mad at them, having to endure that awkward moment simply because they were too lazy to alert Heavy themselves.

But something was off. The Soldier, the Sniper and the Demoman were all staring into a simple light bulb above them. Though the cold, bleak hallway was shrouded in darkness, this small, almost insignificant light bulb was faintly glowing. It flickered quite a bit, lighting up the mercenaries' confused faces.

"Did… did Engie get to the power room already?" asked the Scout, instinctively grasping his bat tightly.

"Couldn't 'ave," said the marksman, not moving his eyes away from the bulb; "That power room is on the other wing of the base. I suppose it would take him a while to reach it."

As the Scout listened to the thunder breaking outside, he noticed one peculiar thing about this light bulb, buzzing as it struggled to shine.

Its shine was a strange, electric blue.

The cyan light disappeared when the light bulb exploded, small shards of glass flowing across the corridor. Some larger shards hit against the Soldier's shovel, which he used to shield his face. A smaller, hot shard of glass whooshed past the Scout, grazing his arm. He hissed and spewed out a couple of profanities before the four mercenaries found themselves in complete darkness. The Heavy ordered them to keep quiet from the inside of his bedroom.

"Jesus Christ, wat da hell!?" Scout managed to ask, shaken by this small mishap.

"Oi hate powa' outages. Creepy stuff begins to 'appen."

"You maggots disgust me! Afraid of the dark, are you? Back in my day, exploding light bulbs were common! We didn't fuss about it as you do now! We were used to the darkness! We were born in it! Molded by it! The only light we had was the light of our patriotic and proud freedom, and…"

"Oh, shut up you bloody wankah!"

"Dirty hippie."

"Pickle-headed drongo."

"Liberal."

The Demoman stepped on a shard of glass with his boot, pausing the argument.

"Eye don't like this. Not one bit," he slurred, half drunkenly; "This reminds me a tad too much of dark forces. And eye hate trickery as sooch."

"Soys the guy with a girlfriend in the vast, unearthly Limbo," sneered the Sniper calmly. This made the Soldier snicker at the Demoman, who was taking out a small torch and lighting it with a lighter. The cloth wrapped around the round wooden end flared, making the hallway look red and hellish.

"Wouldn't it be easia' to carry 'round a flashlight, knucklehead?" Scout asked, trying to avoid the sparkling glass fragments around his bare feet. One of them stung him in the heel, and was leaving a small trail of blood on the cold floor.

"She ain't me girlfriend, ya tit," the Demoman ignored the young Scout; "We're jus' friends… who sometimes…uh…" he explained, not being drunk enough to say what "_sometimes…uh…_" really meant. Unfortunately, his teammates had a hunch about what he might have been talking about.

"But, if the Sheila is… 'Ow in bloody hell does that ever work, mate?" the Sniper raised his eyebrows, intrigued. The Scout wanted to say something, but as soon as he took a single step forward, the shard of glass went deeper into his skin, making him curse loudly and forget his trail of thought.

"This is neither the time nor the place to be talking about that subject, private," said the Soldier, representing the only voice of reason in the group.

"We need to search the area. Who knows what could be lurking around here at a time like this… After the search, the subject will be talked about in great detail," he explained, grabbing the torch from the Scot. The flames whooshed across the air, and a couple of small sweat drops formed over Scout's face. Nevertheless, he came up to the Soldier along with the Sniper, and the three began making their way across the hall.

"You coming, Demo?" asked the Scout, casually looking over to the Scotsman.

"Naw, laddie. If this really wos some old nasty trickery, I ought ta keep me distance. You lads carry on, I'll be right here."

This made the Scout irritated. He scoffed at the Demoman.

"Holy shit, you're a fucking cowahd! Get your ass ovah hiyah and…"

"Look, kid," the Sniper interrupted him; "If he doesn't want to take any chances, he doesn't 'ave to. Honestly, Oi wouldn't wont this to be dark magic either."

The Scout raised his eyebrow and shook his head.

"You knuckleheads can't be serious! Dis ain't dark magic! Sol?" he turned to the Soldier, begging for agreement. However, the Soldier simply continued onward.

"There's no way to know, son."

The Scout turned to the Demoman, drinking his Scrumpy and standing against Heavy's door. Faint singing could still be heard from behind it. The Scout gulped as he began speeding towards the two mercenaries, trying not to step on his sore heel.

"Yo, guys, dis ain't no dark magic, come on! I mean, it's just a badly made bulb! We get a lot of those. Dis ain't magic, is it?...Guys?"

* * *

Footsteps. This was all Scout could hear then. Footsteps. Fast, loud and unforgiving, like someone, or something, was chasing him. Neither one of his teammates seemed to notice the loud steps approaching them. The Scout kept the baseball bat close to his chest, looking around the dimly lit hallway. Engie hasn't activated the emergency power supply yet. The storm was getting louder, and thunder cracked every ten seconds or so, which made the Scout jitterier than he usually was. He was limping by now, and could smell the coppery blood coming from his foot. He tried his best to keep up with his teammates. It was strange, somehow. For once, he was quiet. His mind wandered off, thinking about the narrative Medic had told him. It was all too strange. That strange, cyan glow the light bulb emitted, the footsteps he heard in his head, and even the strange, cold sensation he felt, even though he was standing next to a flaming torch, held by the Soldier, who was currently in a heated debate.

"No, no, no, you miserable maggot! That's not it at all!" the Soldier screamed at the Sniper.

"Then wot is it, then?"

"Easy, maggot. It's Butter Pecan."

The Sniper looked angrily at the burly American, displeased with his choice.

"Butter Pea-" he scoffed loudly; "Do you even know what a bleedin' pecan is?"

"I'll have you know that Butter Pecan is the most delicious flavor since Canned Tomato Soup!"

"Well, it's hardly better than my choice!" he protested.

"You call Mint Chocolate Chip a choice? I should've expected as much from you, you filthy hippie scum!"

"Wot's wrong with it?"

"It looks like dog turd in a ball of grass."

"It ain't about 'ow it looks, mate! Yours doesn't look exactly loike a bleedin' dream either, you wankah!"

"SHUT UP!" yelled the Scout at the two. He looked around the hall, trying to see if someone was following them. Oddly, the footsteps had stopped. He looked at the two mercenaries, exchanging puzzled glances. Finally convinced that no one was around, he cleared his throat to regain his composure.

"Wot the bloody 'ell?" muttered Sniper to the jittery Bostonian. The Scout shook his head, trying not to think about the thunder striking the ground in the distance, or Medic's narrative, which fluttered about in his mind. After making sure that the ghastly footsteps were only in his head, he quickly made an explanation for his outburst.

"Yeah, uh… You're both wrong. Da best flavor is Rocky Road, hands down. So…yeah."

The Soldier and Sniper shrugged at each other before continuing to walk onward. The Scout wiped off some sweat from his brow, now fully aware that he had gone mad. He followed the luminous trail made by the torch, its fire crackling and mixing with the rolling thunder outside. The glass shard penetrated deeper into his heel. The Scout couldn't focus on his surroundings, but instead, tried to block the terrifying thoughts flying through his head.

"Oi still think it's Mint Chocolate Chip."

"Shut up you communist nazi jew!"

A hellish apparition appeared in front of the daring trio. The Scout's eyes widened as he saw it; a maniac standing in front of them, his silhouette visible in the dim, orange light. It breathed heavily, and walked slowly, like a creature not of this earth. And in its hands, in its large, ghastly hands, it held a crowbar.

Was it the memory of Medic's narrative, or was it the Scout's anxiety and willingness to destroy everything odd he saw?

Either way, something made the Scout pounce at the apparition, striking it in the head with his baseball bat. The adrenaline rush made him forget about his pain, and forget about ghosts' immunity to being struck in the head repeatedly with an aluminum baseball bat. Nothing mattered to him at that point, he just wanted to get the rage and confusion out of his system.

Suddenly, the lights came on, as the team's beloved Engineer *finally* turned on the emergency power supply. The Scout found himself on top of his teammate, the Pyro, which he didn't recognize in the darkness. He stared at his optical mask, unable to say a thing. The Sniper pulled him of the now frightened firebug.

"Croist, mate. Wot's gotten into you?" he asked, grabbing the Bostonian firmly by his shoulders. The Scout didn't know what had gotten into him. Upon closer inspection, he found that the Pyro wasn't, in fact, carrying a crowbar. He carried his flame thrower, which he was now defensively clutching under his arm.

"I…I don't know what… I…" Scout tried to explain himself. The firebug extinguished the torch in Soldier's hands. He carelessly tossed it to the floor, and lifted up his shovel.

"Ow!" the Scout yelled as he felt a strong pain in the back of his head. He saw the head of the shovel move slightly from side to side, emitting a short ringing noise.

"Turning on your own teammates?! They ought to have you court-martialed!"

The Scout turned to the firebug, cleaning some imaginary dust off his suit. The Bostonian looked down at the floor.

"S-s-sorry, Py."

"Hmm'ts hmm-khmm," the Pyro said, shrugging.

Scout's sorry excuse for an apology was interrupted by Sniper's order to look down to the floor. The entire group did so, and the sight was truly confusing.

Blue paint was splattered over the floor. It was the same blue color coming from the light bulb before. The paint spread across the floor, in shapes that appeared to be letters. And the last letter, the wide letter D, stretched out to the mercenaries, going around the Soldier, and ending just below Scout's foot. The young man raised it worriedly, and looked at the small hole on his heel. Something was different about this wound. Though the Scout couldn't bring himself to say it, the Sniper was the first to call the elephant in the room.

"Oi think yer blood's turnin' blue."

"Hmmmly chrmmp."

Scout's heart began racing wildly, and he looked at the blue letters in front of him, expecting to see something terrifying. But what he saw only made him sigh with relief.

"Hmwmmt hmm hmmt, Schmmt?" ashed the Pyro, worriedly.

"Well, ya see," the Scout started, forgetting about his blood turning blue for a moment; "the Medic told me this stooped-ass nahrattive 'bout this dead doctah guy, and it was stooped as hell, and the guy was all weird and shit, electrocuting people and shit, and his name was Dement or something, and I thought dat his name was gonna be in these letters, but it ain't, so yeah. Who's hungry?" the Scout clasped his hands together, changing the subject. The group looked at the blue letters written in blood. Strangely enough, they found it slightly unusual.

"Wot did ye say the doctor's name wos?"

"Dement. But it ain't here, so, yeah. I feel like eatin' tacos. You guys want tacos?"

"Hmms hmmt phmmshmmblhmm thmmt hmms nhmm hmm bhmmckhmmwrdhmm?"

"Backwards? What are you…"

The Scout looked at the letters he inadvertently wrote by dragging his pierced foot across the base. He began to read each letter out loud.

"T-N-E-M… Well would ya look at that?"

* * *

The Demoman was still standing in the now dimly lit corridor, listening to Heavy's singing. That lullaby he sung for Sasha was incredibly long. The Scot had lost count by verse sixteen. He was now clutching his head, praying for it to stop. He never thought that a Bostonian's loud yelling and screaming "We're gonna die! Holy shit we're all gonna die!" as he ran through the hallway would seem like a pleasant sound compared to the off key wailing of a certain Russian.

"He'll fry our brains! He'll fry our brains! Run! RUUUUUUN!" he shouted, running past the Demoman. The Scot quickly tugged at the collar of his shirt, making him come to an abrupt halt.

"Whoa, there. Where's the fire, boyo?"

The Scout began twitching with fear, jerking his right shoulder upwards while he tried to form a sensible sentence.

"He… he… he's here, man. We…we… we have to go!"

"Huh?" The Demoman was puzzled, even more so when he saw three of his teammates running after the Bostonian.

"Thanks," the Sniper panted as he finally stopped; "Thanks for stoppin' 'im, mate."

The Soldier grabbed the Bostonian by the arm, making him hiss in pain. The Pyro was standing idly by, holding his flame thrower in both his hands. The Demoman looked at the four men, unable to grasp what was going on.

"Wot's all this, then?"

The Soldier was the one to enlighten him.

"This kid got stung in the foot and started bleeding. We wanted to take him to the medical bay, but then _somebody,_" he looked at the Pyro angrily; "pointed out that his blood was spelling something out."

"Hmmt thmmthmmly whmms!"

"No it wasn't maggot!" Soldier snapped, tightening his grip around Scout's forearm. The Demoman looked at the blue bloodstains around the sole of his foot.

"I dunnoe mooch about medicine, but that looks loike one hell uff an infection."

"It ain't an infection!" Scout cried. "It's a curse! It's dark magic, like you said!"

The Demoman smirked at that.

"Dark magic? You 'onestly believed that? Laddie, Eye wos jus' too lazy to come on that expedition of yers."

The Scout slouched slightly, and the Soldier let him out of his grip. He looked at the Demoman, his big blue eyes filling with confusion.

"So… there really isn't any dark magic in hiyah?"

"No, laddie. We're jus' messin' with ya."

"So, den," the Scout rubbed his palms together; "The light bulb was just a faulty light bulb?"

"Everything here is faulty, mate," said the Sniper, flipping his Bushwacka in his hand.

"So den," the Scout gulped, running his sweaty palm through his prickly buzz cut; "The Doctah Dement thing was a lie? There ain't no evil ghost around hiyah?"

"Hmm dhmmbt hmmt."

"Well den… who tha hell is dat?"

As the RED team members turned, they saw a ghastly figure in the dimly lit room. It was a transparent figure, floating in mid-air. Its white hair was flowing like it had been submerged in water, and its eyes were wide open, and the pupils were completely white. Cyan electricity flew around its body, and ectoplasm oozed from its peeling flesh. It groaned as the mercenaries saw it, it groaned loudly and painfully. It opened its mouth widely, and began spurting a blue liquid out of its gaping jaws. It dripped down its chin and onto the white robe it wore. The mercenaries were quiet for barely a minute.

"Bloody hell," commented the Sniper.

"God help us," muttered the Soldier.

"Dis ain't happenin', dis ain't happenin, dis ain't happenin'…" squealed the Scout.

"Wot da fook?!" yelled the Demoman.

And Pyro said nothing because he was running away like a little girl.

"This here is black magic, laddies!" slurred the Scotsman, regretting the fact that he didn't bring the Highland Banishment Spell Book. "Run fer yer lives!" he cried, running through the dim hallway.

"Deserters!" the Soldier picked up his shovel and began running after his teammates, completely forgetting the ghastly creature in front of him. He had a code, death before dishonor, and he wanted everyone to obey it.

"Come back here, useless maggots!"

It was down to the Sniper and the Scout to face the atrocity in front of them It groaned one last time, making the ground shake. The Scout tightened his grip on his baseball bat, but couldn't move his arm to strike the creature. The Sniper looked calm. He frowned at the ghoul and shook his head disapprovingly.

"Okay, okay. You had yer fun."

The creature then emitted an unexpected snort. It moved its hand across its face, and removed something resembling a thin paper mask. The figure now standing before them was not of a monster, but of an elegant, suave, devious French rogue in a scarlet pin-striped suit and a balaclava. He snorted once again at the frightened Scout and the agitated Sniper.

"Dat was… dat was you?" Scout finally asked, bringing himself to stop shaking.

"What did you expect?" the Spy said in his outrageous French accent, before he started to laugh. What started as a giggle, now turned into an incoherent series of growls and snorts, intertwined with a couple of comments regarding his audience.

"You were all "AAAAAH!", and I was all "BLAAAARGH!", and zhen, you were… oh, _mon dieu!" _he managed, before he began laughing again, clutching his stomach and bending over to keep his sides from splitting. The Bostonian and the Australian were now looking at him angrily; their arms crossed and ready to beat the living bajeepers out of their French comrade. Comrade being a term used loosely, of course.

"You..." Spy wiped off a tear rolling down his cheek; "You should've seen your faces! You were… BWAHAHAHAH!" he gushed, tossing his head back. When he was done, he exhaled loudly, trying to regain some oxygen he had lost during his little laugh.

"I don't think I've ever laughed zhat hard before. You… you really are eediots, aren't you?" he turned to his teammates, letting out a small painful chuckle. But something was off. His teammates were looking into the distance, quietly. Their face were white as snow, and seemed rather nervous.

"What ees eet?" the Spy frowned at them.

"Be… B-behind you, Spook," managed the Australian. The Spy scoffed at him.

"Oh, please. I would never fall for zuch a silly prank."

Suddenly, Spy felt a rush of cold air behind him, blowing straight into his back. He heard something resembling an inhale. The voice speaking to him was croaked, with a hint of a German accent.

"You never know Watt you may fall for. Though I assure, you might find zhis particular prank to be quite…_shocking_."

And then the Spy felt a buzzing sensation of having a fully charged aluminum electricity conductor placed inches away from his face…


	3. The Torturing of My Readers Part XII

**Author's Note: **Dear readers, today, I don't even...  
Well, the main genre is Humor. This isn't Humor as much as it's plain mental torture. For the writer, mostly. Uhh... yeah. I'm going to go to sleep. Hopefully forever.

* * *

The Sniper knew the basic mechanics of opening a door. To open a door, one needed to firmly grasp a door knob or handle, and apply light pressure upon turning it or bending it downward. When said motion failed to open the entry flap, the Sniper knew that something was off. Either his sneaky French teammate had locked himself in his room, or there was a feisty koala, pushing the door in the opposite direction, thus cancelling out the marksman's attempts at prying the door open.

The former would be slightly more likely than the latter.

"Come on, Spook, open up!" cried the marksman, trying to open the door once more, jiggling the knob. The Frenchman didn't respond. The Australian leaned his head against the door with a thump. It was already 3:24 in the morning, and quite frankly, the marksman didn't have time to deal with _yet another _colleague dealing with a panic attack. Barely a minute ago, the Spy was running to his room, screaming. And, being the oh-so-considerate assassin he was, the Sniper was the one to follow him.

"Oi'm tellin' you, the ghost ain't real! Honestly, Spook, Oi thought that you of all people would know that ghosts ain't real! Now open up!"

The Spy remained quiet. The marksman shrugged and grabbed his Bushwacka securely in the palm of his hand, turning sideways towards the door.

"Alroight, then. But ye asked for it."

With a single powerful blow, the marksman forced the door open. He fell on the floor, clutching his aching shoulder, thankful for the door not being made of metal. He looked up from the red carpet and scoped the area, the surprisingly large, oddly messy and expectedly dark area. The first thing he noticed was that everything was in odd chaotic order. A couple of strange, expensive looking glass figurines were sorted neatly in a line on a mantelpiece, taking up most of it. The closet door was wide open, and Sniper could see roughly fifty suits hanging inside of it. The room was dark, the darkness masking the details of the room and making it look neat. The centre of the room was orderly and chaos free, while everything the Spy owned was crammed in the corners. The clear centre and the darkness gave out the illusion of a neat, minimalistic room, while in reality, the Spy's abode was filled with trinkets, collectibles and various crap.

The darkness failed to conceal one thing, though; the absence of a certain masked mercenary. The Sniper rose from his knees and stood up straight, narrowing his eyes to make out certain details and possibly spot the Spook. He didn't need to try and spot him, as the Spy already snuck behind his and prepared his trusty butterfly knife.

The Sniper felt the Frenchman's presence, and quickly responded by jerking his elbow backwards, thus hitting him in the stomach. The Frenchman punched the Australian in the face, causing him to fall on the clear space in the middle of the room. He grabbed his Bushwacka and hurled it towards the Frenchman, who was now standing above him, knife in hand, and ready to stab him. The marksman stopped his hand in mid-air and looked at the Spy, who was looking oddly nervous and maybe, frightened?

No. That couldn't have been it. Or maybe…?

The marksman dropped the Bushwacka and looked at the Spy, straight in his eyes.

"Spook. It's just me."

"Shut up!" he snapped; "Shut up! You tried to kill me!"

"Kill you? Excuse me, but you were the one who snuck behind me!" The Australian lowered the tone of his voice upon seeing the blade coming closer to his face.

"Alroight, Spook. Relax. That guy over there? The ghost? That was the Medic. Seriously. Calm down. I'm pretty sure he's takin' Scout to the medical bay to get his foot checked out."

The Frenchman could still smell the burned fibers of his suit that got caught in the electric charge. His face remained stiff, but his voice broke and he lowered the knife.

"It was… it was so real…"

"No, it wasn't. This bleedin' blackout has got everyone freaking out. Hell, that kid tried to beat up the Pyro. Honestly! You ain't so bad," the marksman smiled carefully. At that moment, the Spy tucked the butterfly knife back into his jacket and went up to his bed. He sat on it, and it let out a slight squeak. He clasped his hands together and began shaking, looking into the distance. The marksman got on his feet and sat next to him, managing to sit on a pile of magazines, mostly copies of _The Financial Times_ and some pretentious French pornography, where the girl on the cover looked as if she were actually judging you.

_I am on a black and white photograph, in a field of black roses, riding a white horse completely naked. You disgust me, unworthy peasant._

"Oi 'ave never seen you loike this, Spook," said the marksman subtly drawing the magazine closer to him, focusing his eyes on the Spy; "It's unnatural."

"I know," Spy said, slightly embarrassed; "I don't know what came over me. I suppose…" he gulped; "I suppose I don't react well to 'aving someone sneak up be'ind me."

The Sniper bit the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at the irony of what the Spy had just said.

"Don't…" he snickered, quickly turning his laughter into a cough, "Don't worry, mate. It was just the Medic. You can stop 'iding 'ere."

Thunder struck outside loudly. The lights began to flicker and a scream was heard from the hallway, hushed by the buzzing of the light bulbs and the rolling thunder. The Spy flinched and covered his face with his fists, like a frightened child. To his utter horror, he noticed that the Sniper was still there, staring at him.

"I'm…" he coughed, "I'm sorry you 'ad to see that, bushman."

"S' alroight, mate," the Sniper said in a high-pitched tone, trying not to burst out laughing again. He looked at the now fully illuminated room, which now looked very messy indeed. Spy was definitely a hoarder, Sniper thought. He only conceals it well.

"Well, Oi'm off," he announced, jumping off the bed and stepping towards the door. When he turned to the Spy, he noticed that he was still clutching the corner of his bed, shivering.

"Ye really hoite thunder storms don't you?" he sneered. The Spy nodded twice.

"Well… good luck, then."

"Mundy…"

The marksman sighed, turning to the Spy.

"Yes?"

"Could you… stay a leetle bit longer?" the Spy looked at the floor in embarrassment.

"Wot's that, mate?" Sniper asked.

"Could. You. Stay. A. Leetle. Beet. Longer. You. Disgusting. Bushman."

"Ow, gee, wow, how couldn't Oi, after hearin' that?" jeered Mundy, about ready to leave.

"Fair enough," shrugged Spy, "Oh, and, um… I found something interesting in your ammo box the other day."

The Sniper turned to him, worriedly. He knew exactly what he was talking about.

"You know, by protocol, I must tell the Administrator. Illegal substances… I think that ze Soldier would find eet very interesting as well."

The Sniper gulped and turned to the Spy.

"Okay, first of, that wos medicinal, and Oi needed it after the Doc did some surgery on me eye, and…"

"No, no, no, _mon ami, _eet ees no problem at all. It's just that… well…" the Frenchman stretched out his hand and began examining it, imitating the Sniper.

"_Look at me 'and, mate," _he started; "_Look at me 'and, 'ow weird ees me 'and, me 'and is loike a foot for me arm."_

The Sniper was growing more and more irritated, knowing exactly where the Spook was going with this.

"_Why do they call these 'fingers', mate? Zey don't look fingery to me. 'Ey, wot's that rocket doing, flying towards me? Oi betta' wave to eet." _The Spy looked at the marksman, batting his eyes at him innocently.

"Zat ees not very appropriate to say on the battlefield, _non_? Zat really wasn't your finest moment. Eet would be a shame if somebody else found out about it. Especially Soldier…" he snickered, his fright completely gone by now. The Sniper groaned and sat on the bed with him.

"Oi stay 'ere, and you don't talk to Soldier about the half a pound of… medication Oi 'ave in me…"

"Not a peep, _mon ami," _the Frenchman smiled.

"'Ow long do Oi 'ave to stay 'ere?"

"Unteel it pleases me. Could you scratch my back at bit?" asked the Spy, trying to provoke him more. He soon felt the sensation of having a truly angry teammate claw at his fine Italian suit.

"Woi do you do this to me, Spook?"

"Because I am a perverted sociopath who takes pleasure in other people's misery."

"Oi 'ate you so much roight now, Spook." The marksman's fingernails broke through the fabric, and it responded with a painful ripping noise.

"Likewise," the Spy muttered, grinding his teeth at the noise.

* * *

The Scout was looking at the figure that appeared behind Spy what seemed like moments ago. The figure held a larger electricity conductor close to the Frenchman's face, much to his discomfort. In about one second, the Spy started running as fast as his legs could carry him, pushing the Sniper and the Scout aside and running to his room.

And, if Scout were to retell you this tale, the Spy would've gone '_meep meep' before_ making his speedy, graceless exit.

The Bostonian and the Australian were now facing a German doctor, switching off his electricity conductor with a smug look on his face. He let out a chuckle and shook his head at the Spy.

"Th-thanks, Doc," said the Scout, almost laughing at the Spy's reaction.

"Wos that roily necessary, Doc?" asked the Sniper, casually looking over to the dim hallway.

"Vell, somebody had to teach him a proper way of imitating a ghost. His method vas quite overused. Ectoplasm? _Really?" _the doctor chuckled, adjusting his glasses to the bridge of his nose. He looked over to the two, switching his gaze from the Bostonian to the Australian.

"I vould have to take care of the boy. He's bleeding quite heavily. Vould you mind checking up on ze Spy?" the doctor asked the marksman.

"Wot? Me? Wot am Oi, 'is babysitter? Let 'im check up on himself!"

To that remark, the doctor grabbed the marksman's shoulder, looking straight into his once brown eyes, now blue due to a recent Respawn malfunction which no one bothered to fix. The four icy blue eyes connected, and the doctor spoke to him in a slow monotone.

"You really should check up on him. You really should," the doctor said. The Sniper stepped away from him, looking straight at the doctor but not acknowledging his presence in the dim corridor.

"Roight, then," he announced, "Oi'll go… check up on him."

"Good man." The German doctor said, and continued to look at the Sniper walk down the long narrow hallway, his footsteps echoing in the distance and growing quieter and quieter.

It won't be long until they are no more.

"Yo, Medic!" the Scout called the doctor, "Dat was a good prank. 'bout time someone thought Spoi a lesson, ya know?"

"Quite," the German nodded. He straightened his beige vest and walked behind the Scout, who was now looking into the distance. The Bostonian fidgeted with his baseball bat.

"Oh, Scout, remember zat skeleton ve vere talking about earlier?"

"Yeah. Da one you wouldn't tell me about? Dat's was freakin' stooped. I mean, you told me about dat Doctah Determined…"

"Dement, Scout. His name is Doctor Dement of Berlin."

"Right. So, yeah, dat was a pretty dick move of you if you ask me."

The doctor grabbed his electricity conductor in his hand. He tossed in the air and caught it skillfully, looking at the back of Scout's head.

"Vell, I just remembered who zat skeleton belonged to."

"Oh?"

"It belonged to one of the Scouts Dement killed. Not necessarily…_Harvey_…" he grinded his teeth, much to the Bostonian's confusion.

"Uh… Medic?"

"Oh!" The doctor quickly calmed himself down.

"Vell, it belonged to one of the Scouts. He always vanted to kill Harvey, but never did. So he had to settle for killing other, lesser Scouts. It didn't give him much pleasure, but…" He approached the Scout, raising his large aluminum conductor high above his head.

"Yo, Doc, as much as I love your narratives, my foot is bleeding, so why don't ya just take care of it?"

"_Take care of it_? You mean it?" His breath was lingering ominously in the air, smelling of dust and electrocuted flesh. He got within inches of the Scout, smiling mischievously.

"Yeah, Doc. Just do it."

"If you insist…"

The "doctor" charged his weapon to maximum capacity and swung it towards the young man, his figure obtaining a powerful blue aura. His eyes rolled in the back of his head as he prepared to kill the Scout with a powerful strike. He began foaming at the mouth with bloodlust and anticipation. And just then as the Scout screamed in pain, thunder cracked. All the lights came on, flickering madly. The room started to shake as nature's creation mixed with the electric fury of an undead demented doctor. The Scout fell to his knees, breathing heavily. His cheek was burning, and it felt like somebody was peeling it clean off. He looked at the blue bloody surface beneath his legs. There laid a pair of glasses. He cautiously picked it up and looked around the room, noticing that the doctor was nowhere in sight. He turned his head at the empty light bulb socket. The light bulb that used to be there exploded, and what he was seeing now was orange sparks flying through the coppery hole. He flinched as the fiery rain fell on the cold floor. Confused and in great pain, he looked at the glasses once more.

"Scout? Scout!?"

The Medic was running hastily through the corridor, awkwardly bumping into the walls, cursing under his breath. This was the same doctor Scout saw before him moments ago.

At least, he thought it was the same doctor…

"I haff heard a scream!" the doctor squinted at him, "Are you alright?"

"Well, umm…" the Scout mumbled. The doctor focused his gaze on something Scout was holding in his hand.

"_Meine Brille?"_ He grabbed the glasses and placed them on his nose, satisfied that he could see everything clearly now. He blinked heavily, trying to clear his vision.

"I knew it! I knew zat you had my glasses. Thief!"

"But…but…" Scout pointed at the gaping blub socket, still letting out a couple of sparks. The doctor frowned at it, but quickly looked back at the Bostonian.

"_Mein Gott! _Vhat happened to you?"

The Bostonian touched his raw cheek. On it was something resembling a spider web, stretching across the side of his face, from his chin to just under his eye. It was blue, an almost electric cyan. The doctor was looking at his bleeding foot.

"You are getting in the medical bay right now!" he commanded, pushing the Scout towards his bay.

"But…but…but…" Scout mumbled incoherently.

"_Aber, _first I haff to take care of somezing."

The Scout walked slowly to the bay, limping and trying to process everything that has happened today.

"But… but… but…"

The doctor stepped under the light bulb socket, taking out a conveniently located light bulb from his lab coat. He hissed as he grazed the flaming surface of the copper, but forced through the pain and screwed the light bulb tightly. He marveled at his accomplishment.

A strange, faint blue glow flickered inside of the light bulb. The Medic pinched the bridge of his nose and began talking to it.

"You alvays do this during blackouts. You're just getting annoying now, you know?"

The cyan light flickered as a response.

"Hey. You did your best. If the blackout lasted for just a second longer, ve vould be recruiting a new Scout."

The light bulb seemed to hiss at that, but soon calmed down.

"_Na ja, _but vat can you do. Better luck next time, anyvay."

And with that, the light disappeared, possibly to plot bloody murder. The doctor turned on his heel, marching to the medical bay to aid the confused and sleep deprived Scout. He turned off the lights in the corridor, making a mental note to clean up the blue blood and broken glass shards.

"Better luck next time, Doctor Dement," he hummed, just before the light put itself out, hopefully forever.

**FIN**

* * *

Moral of the story; don't tell Scout a horror story during a stormy night just as he drank seven cans of Bonk! Atomic Punch. Don't. Ever.


End file.
